The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  After shedding my jeans, I lowered my left bra strap. Then, I lowered the left cup, revealing my erect nipple. I did the same with the right. Then, I removed the bra as slowly and seductively as I was able. I dropped the garment at my feet and covered my breasts with my cupped hands, feigning my best look of innocence.

  Just to remind him that was still wearing panties, I backed away from the camera far enough for him to see.

  Facing the camera, I was dressed in nothing but a pair of lace panties and my pink hat. Still gyrating to the music, I gave him my best performance, sliding my hand inside my panties and touching myself lightly.

  I was beyond aroused, and my pussy was soaked, but the dance wasn’t for me. It was a performance for a man I hoped would enjoy it. Something to take his mind off his sick father and the deteriorating condition of the nation.

  With a minute left in the song, I faced away from the camera, giving Braxton a full view of my best side. As I watched the song’s remaining time on the television screen, I pushed my panties down my hips.

  An inch at a time, I gave him more of me, until my panties were at my ankles.

  With 20 seconds left, I was completely naked, short of my hat. Facing the television, I finished my performance and hoped he enjoyed it. As the song faded to nothing, I slowly faced the camera and titled my hat to the side.

  I was fifteen feet from the phone, but it looked like he was masturbating.

  I moved closer. Facing the camera with his cock in his hand, his shirt was off. His sweats were around his thighs.

  Staring right at me, he was stroking his cock like his life depended on it. Turned on beyond measure and filled with a sense of self-pride for bringing him to that point of arousal, I watched as he finished his chore.

  After erupting a geyser of cum into his cupped hand, he excused himself.

  I’d trusted Braxton enough to reveal a secret about myself to him. Doing so cleansed me of my feelings of guilt, and it drew me even closer to the man I was slowly developing deep feelings for.

  Feeling uncertain of where our relationship was headed, but pleased with where it was for the moment, I waited for him to return.

  “Holy shit,” he said, stepping in front of the camera. “That was sexy as fuck.”

  I grinned. “Do you feel better?”

  “I do,” he replied. “Do you?”

  The guilt—and my clothes—were gone. Still naked, but as comfortable as if I were clothed, I offered him a heartfelt smile.

  “Yes,” I said. “I sure do.”

  Anna

  Day seventeen

  I was tested for the virus and received negative results. Braxton drove to an independent laboratory to see if his body had developed antibodies against the disease. Although there was plenty of published data to support him no longer being contagious, he wanted scientific proof before he came in contact with others.

  I yearned to be in Braxton’s presence but wanted a doctor’s clearance as much as he did. I didn’t want to be the cause for another funeral with no attendees or become the subject of a Dateline story about a wannabe nurse who died taking care of her sexy COVID-19 infected neighbor.

  I sat on the couch, waiting for Braxton to return. Accustomed to having him breathing in my ear or talking to me on a video chat, the silence of his absence was unnerving. Feeling anxious, I pieced together a timeline of our makeshift relationship.

  He saved me from a criminal. I became starry-eyed. We had sex. I was infatuated. He resisted. I pressed on. We had sex again, which was interrupted by a Hollywood harlot. During that disruption, he left me for the harlot.

  We didn’t speak for two weeks.

  He became infected with a life-threatening disease, which caused him to take a long, hard look at his life, and his actions. Thankfully, he had no symptoms.

  He apologized for his actions.

  Following his heartfelt apology, I felt much better about matters between us, and of the possibility that we could develop a valuable friendship.

  Then, he fell ill.

  Eleven days passed. During that time, the minutes seemed like hours. The hours resembled the longest of days, and the days dragged on like weeks. When it was over, my feelings about Braxton were far different than they were in the beginning.

  In a week and a half, I learned who Braxton Rourke truly was. Throughout his illness, he unwillingly lost the layers of his protective armor, one by one. Eventually, he was exposed, alone, and in need of protection. I offered him shelter with the bedtime stories I read. I lulled him to sleep with songs. I absorbed each tear that he shed and wept for him when he was unable.

  I now feared a friendship between us wouldn’t suffice. My relationship clock had been ticking at a much different pace than Braxton’s. During his sickness, I had spent a decade at his side reliving the horrors of war. That decade, however, was ten years that he had no idea I’d been a part of.

  Unbeknownst to him, I’d accompanied him through battle. I held his virtual hand while he called in airstrikes. I sought shelter at his side on a dusty Iraqi road behind a burned-out Toyota while a sniper took pot shots at us. I waited impatiently in Afghanistan for a Corpsman that never came. As his brothers in arms drew their last dying breaths, I held him in my arms while he held them in his.

  The familiar drone of his SUV’s exhaust snatched me from my dreamlike state. Sitting in my spot at the end of the sofa, I faced the window and waited.

  He turned into my drive and rolled to a stop.

  I held my breath.

  He stepped out of the vehicle. His tailored navy suit that once fit him like a second skin now hung from his shoulders like he’d selected it from Nordstrom’s sale rack. He produced a sheet of paper from inside his coat pocket. He fumbled to unfold it, and then raised it high in the air.

  I rushed to the front door and yanked it open. “What did they say? Is it…are you—”

  A prideful grin covered his face. “I’m one hundred percent safe.”

  “One hundred percent as in—”

  He stretched his arms wide. “One hundred percent as in, come here.”

  We hadn’t hugged yet. It would be our first.

  I rushed through the yard and down the driveway. I leaped against him with such force that I nearly knocked him over.

  He caught me mid-air and swung me in circles. Our actions resembled the scenes from the cheesy Lifetime movies that I used to watch at Christmastime while I was in college.

  Only it was real.

  Not knowing if we were merely celebrating his release from confinement with a hug, or if this was the beginning of something much bigger, I mentally struggled with where I should place my hands.

  Fearing rejection, I chose to let them dangle at my sides.

  I had questions I wanted to ask. There were answers I desperately needed to hear. I told myself to enjoy the moment until it was over. I closed my eyes and relished the comfort of being in his arms.

  We stopped spinning. I opened my eyes.

  His gaze met mine.

  Held tight in his arms, my feet dangled six inches above the concrete. I searched his eyes for answers. They possessed a desire that I hadn’t previously noticed.

  Lost in admiration, I gazed into the glistening sea of brown and green, wondering just what my future held.

  He traced the tip of his finger along the edge of my jaw. A tinge of anticipation ran though me.

  He lifted my chin slightly.

  Then, he answered all my questions with a kiss.

  It wasn’t a thank you kiss, nor was it one of appreciation. It was the type of kiss that all other kisses are compared to.

  The kiss that defines kisses.

  A kiss that forces the recipient to long for it more than they long for anything else in their lifetime.

  One of his hands rested along the bottom of my butt. The other pressed firmly against the middle of my back. I draped mine over his shoulders and pulled him against me.

  His lips melded to mine. Our
tongues intertwined. The passage of time stopped altogether.

  Suspended in that moment, we kissed each other as if our lives were dependent upon our successes.

  When our mouths parted, I was mindless.

  I knew one thing, however.

  Braxton Rourke held my heart in his hands.

  I prayed that he handled it with care this time.

  Braxton

  My fellow Marines were placed in two categories. The trustworthy and the incapable. While in combat, both groups of men faced the prospect of dying.

  When placed at the crossroad of life and death, the trustworthy Marines stood firm in their convictions. They fought to uphold their system of beliefs; death be damned.

  The incapable Marines were unwilling to devote themselves to a cause they were contractually—and morally—obligated to uphold. They were promptly deemed unreliable and disloyal.

  The men who risked their lives received the same level of devotion in return. The men who were indecisive in the heat of battle never held my respect for a fleeting moment.

  My experience in combat taught me many things. Most importantly, I learned that when a man is staring death in the face, the decisions he makes will define him.

  Four days earlier, when I woke up from my sickness, I telephoned Pratt. I felt guilty for not informing him of my illness and embarrassed for haphazardly exposing myself to the virus. In short, I owed him an apology.

  I called him and apologized. He explained what Anna had done. When faced with the prospect of forfeiting her life to save another, she made the decision without hesitation. She chose to run toward the threat instead of away from it.

  Pratt may have prevented her from entering my home, but his choice didn’t negate the decision she’d made when she was at the crossroad of life and death. Her decision, like the decisions of my fellow Marines, defined her.

  There was only one thing left for her to prove.

  When I reached the age that I found interest in women, my father offered mountains of advice. I never knew if my failure to secure the right woman was a result of my father’s poor advice or my inability to make good decisions.

  One piece of his advice now came to mind.

  “Never choose a woman because she’s good in the sack,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because good pussies aren’t always attached to good women,” he replied.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  He looked at me like I was a complete idiot. “Choose a woman based on how she makes you feel when she’s not fucking you.”

  I returned six months or so later, asking him to expand upon his advice.

  “Human beings have a propensity to lie,” he said. “But a kiss will always tell the truth.”

  He explained that the moment he kissed my mother he knew she was the one he’d spend the rest of his life loving, caring for, and building a family with. I laughed at his claim. Something as simple as a kiss revealed absolutely nothing about who a woman was.

  Or, so I thought.

  “Holy crap,” Anna said. “What was…” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What was that about?”

  “I guess it was a test.”

  She playfully batted her eyes. “Did I pass?”

  Her curly brown hair glistened in the afternoon sun. Her face—which had worn the looks of either worry, wonder, or aggravation for the past month—now expressed delight. I gazed at her admiringly.

  It was as if I was seeing her for the first time.

  My father was right. Kissing her opened a door within my soul that I had no idea existed. When we kissed, Anna unknowingly stepped through it. She now resided in a place alongside my beloved Marines; protected, admired, and respected.

  I needed to know if she felt the same way but had no idea how to ask. I continued my admiring observation. I didn’t know what else to do.

  “Hell-o,” she said sarcastically. “Earth to Rourke, Braxton Rourke. Come in Rourke, Braxton Rourke.”

  I gazed at her blankly, wondering if it was a fluke. Had the disease compromised my ability to reason? I’d been immune to the feelings of attraction for more than ten years. I needed to know for sure before I made the commitment.

  I lifted her chin. I pressed my lips against hers. We kissed. My head began to tingle. An indescribable sensation of contentment filled me, completely.

  I pulled away.

  She seemed surprised that I’d ended the kiss. “What’s wrong?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” I gave her a quick once-over. “What do you want out of this?”

  Her gaze narrowed a little. “What’s this?”

  “You and me,” I replied. “Us.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly, I hate to set my sights on something too glorious, because—”

  “If you got to choose what happened between us, what would it be? Anything goes.”

  Her lips parted slightly. Seeming hesitant to speak her mind, she brushed her hair behind her ear. With worry in her eyes, she studied me.

  “Anything,” I said. “What would it be?”

  “When we met? I liked you. You were intriguing. We had sex. It was amazing. I wanted more.” Her gaze fell to the driveway. “More sex, really. I mean, I didn’t like the idea of being rejected, but at that point it wasn’t about anything but sex. When you got sick, I was your wannabe nurse. I spent every waking hour with you. I learned more about who you really are. I found out more about myself, too. I still like you, but now it’s for all the right reasons. We can either be friends, or we can be lovers, but we can’t be in between,” She met my gaze. “If I get to pick, I want to be lovers.”

  “Lovers?” I asked. “We’d be in a full-fledged relationship?”

  “Call it whatever makes you comfortable.” She kicked an errant stone with the toe of her shoe. “But that’s what I want. If I get to pick. If that’s what we decide, there will be a few rules.”

  “Like what?”

  “As far as sex goes, we’re not jumping right back to where we were. Like I said, I want this to be for all the right reasons. To convince myself that it is, we need to start slow.”

  It wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Kissing her was as good as any sex that I’d ever had. However, as right as it felt to kiss her, the thought of committing to a relationship scared the hell out of me.

  “I’ve been shot twice, cut more times than I can count, lived through two IED explosions, had three bones broken, and had my skull fractured,” I said. “Nothing was as painful as being cheated on. The pain of having that trust severed? It was—”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s happened to me, too.”

  “You’ve been cheated on?”

  “More times than I can count.”

  “You’re trustworthy,” I said, expressing my conscious thoughts before I could contain them.

  She looked at me funny. “You’re asking me, or telling me?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe a little of both.”

  “Do you carry a knife?” she asked.

  “Say again?”

  “A knife,” she said, looking me up and down. “Do you carry one? Most guys like you do.”

  It seemed like an odd request. I reached into my pocket. “I do.”

  “Can I see it?” she asked.

  “Be careful,” I said, handing it to her. “It’s sharp as fuck.”

  She flicked the blade open, proving it wasn’t the first knife of its kind that she’d ever handled. She extended her thumb. Before I could stop her, she sliced into the flesh.

  Blood dripped from the tip of her thumb onto the driveway between us.

  She handed me the knife. “Here.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the knife. “Cut your thumb. We’ll make a blood bond. It’s like a pinkie promise for adults.”

  If she hoped to garner my attention, she’d certainly done it.

  “W
hat are we promising?” I asked.

  “We’re committing to one another that we’re in this for the long haul. If you cheat on me, your word isn’t worth steaming pile of shit.” She tilted her head toward the distant freeway. “I’ll buy a billboard and make sure the city knows it, too. ‘Braxton, Braxton Rourke is a no good, lying asshole.’ As long as you’re faithful, you’ll see that same level of commitment from me.”

  It seemed like an odd manner of committing to one another considering the world’s current views regarding the ease of transmission of the disease.

  I stared at her in disbelief. Instantly, she mistook my hesitation as an indication of fear.

  “Don’t be a fucking pussy,” she said under her breath. “I’m not scared. You shouldn’t be, either.”

  Imagining a life with her in it came easily. I tried to imagine a life without her. It was incomprehensible. Not a life I wanted to live, that much I was sure of.

  Without further thought, I swept the knife’s blade along the pad of my thumb. I squeezed out a droplet of blood. As it splashed onto the concrete between my feet, our eyes met.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “When you’re ready to make the commitment.” She raised her thumb. “Press yours against mine.”

  “Thumb, or lips?” I asked.

  She smirked. “Suit yourself.”

  Given the freedom to decide, I chose both.

  Anna

  It was hard to believe I was giddy during a global pandemic, but it was true. In fact, I was so full of excitement I could barely contain myself. For me, being in a relationship with anyone was an accomplishment.

  When that person was Braxton, Braxton Rourke. Yeah, it was epic. Anxious to get started on living life—even if we were confined to our homes—I fought to keep from letting the cat out of the bag with Marge.

  To celebrate Braxton’s release from the doctor, she invited us over for a dinner of homemade chicken and noodles, mashed potatoes, bread and corn. Braxton and I discussed it, and decided we wanted to wait until after dinner to break the exciting news to her.